


Bookclub

by Cavanaughpark09



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Gen, One Shot, Post-Troubled Blood, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26904511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavanaughpark09/pseuds/Cavanaughpark09
Summary: Robin takes up knitting for a case and loops Strike into her ruse.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 29
Kudos: 82
Collections: Happy Birthday Robin Venetia Ellacott | 2020





	Bookclub

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @BlueRobinWrites for being an amazing beta. After five years of not writing this return has me thrilled! Please excuse any mistakes in my British-isms.
> 
> And yeah, it goes without saying I don't own these characters.

Robin blinked rapidly as she put in the second brown contact lens, waiting for her vision to swim back to normal in the mirror of the tiny cramped bathroom on the third-floor landing. She settled a mousey, brown wig over her distinct strawberry blonde hair and smoothed concealer heavily under her eyes.

Once her vision cleared, she was pleased with the result of her carefully planned outfit. The striped cardigan she'd donned over a plain t-shirt, paired perfectly with the boyfriend cut jeans and trainers to create the appearance of a young mum. The wig, in particular, gave her an older,more settled look that she’d modeled after Strike’s sister Lucy.

When she stepped back into the office Strike’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline.

“Christ,” he muttered, “I don’t know how you do it every time.”

Robin smiled, ignoring the swell of pride in her chest that came whenever she managed a disguise that caught his attention.

“Thank you,” she replied brightly, pulling her coat from the rack and picking up the large shoulder bag she’d borrowed from Ilsa.

Strike picked up the picture of Lucy and her boys that they’d used for inspiration and compared it against Robin’s new look, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’d fit right in with the after-school crowd.”

Their latest client was a husband who thought his wife, the mother of their two children, might be having an affair. She was going out for hours several evenings a week with little explanation, aside from that she was going out with a few lady-friends. Her husband was suspicious.

Barclay had nicknamed her _Bookclub_ ; the first time he’d followed her she’d spent nearly five hours in a bookshop and then at a restaurant. It had been decided that Robin might be a less suspicious participant at the bookshop that advertised a knitting circle on Tuesday nights.

“I’ve saved a few pictures of me holding Annabelle on my phone,” Robin explained, “Thankfully she takes after Stephen so there’s a decent resemblance.”

“I thought your cover was that you were a mom of two?”

“It is,” Robin explained, “Lucy send me a few pictures of you and Jack.”

“She what?” His head snapped up from the computer screen where he was doing research for another case.

Robin opened her phone and pulled up a picture of her business partner and his nephew at a most recent birthday; the young boy with a costume red-cap and army jacket that his mother had bought. 

Something flipped in Strike’s stomach as she leaned forward to show him the picture and he caught a scent of her new musky, sweet perfume.

“Me and Jack?”

Robin shrugged, “He’s about the same age as Bookclub’s sons, isn’t he? It makes sense.”

She was thankful for her coat, with its high collar already turned up, hiding the blush that was surely rising up her neck. Neither of them wanted children, as they’d previously discussed, but the pictures implied Strike was her husband.

“Is that all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine,” he responded quickly.

She smiled and pulled a plain gold band from the pocket of her purse, sliding it onto her ring finger as a final touch and nodded.

“I’ll update you in the morning then,” she told him before heading out the door.

The tube ride to Southgate was quick going as rush hour ridership dwindled. It gave her time to make sure she had everything she needed in her purse; a book, knitting needles, and a skein of yarn. If Bookclub was part of the knitting circle it would help to blend in. Robin’s grandmother had taught her to knit when she was a child, and she was hoping that it would be easy enough to pick it up again.

Fall had turned crisp and cool after her birthday and she enjoyed the walk from the station to Daunt Books, where Bookclubs’ group met. She recognized the big front windows and dark green marquee in the near twilight and stepped in past a few leaving customers.

The inside of the bookshop was bright, the walls lined with mahogany shelves and sunset light filtering in through the skylights that ran nearly the whole length of the building. She could only imagine how it looked in full daylight. As she wandered further into the store, she noticed a large stained-glass window in the back, bright against the turquoise walls.

She made a circuit of the floor before stopping by the front desk to ask about the group’s meeting, where she was directed downstairs.

At the basement level tables had been cleared to the sides of the room and a set of comfortable armchairs, and folding chairs had been dragged into a large circle. A few women were already settled in, with a few more were still moving things around, settling food on one of the cleared tables.

“Hello,” one of the women said, waving to her. “Are you here for the knitting circle?”

“Hiya,” Robin greeted, “Yes, I saw an advert online and thought it’d be a good way to get out of the house. I’m Violet Jones.”

“I’m Sonia,” the woman introduced herself. “Come, grab some food and a seat. Everyone should be getting here in the next ten minutes or so.”

Robin poured herself a cup of tea and picked up a couple of biscuits before taking a seat in one of the chairs and digging through the bag for her knitting supplies. As she settled in she ran the soft, smooth yarn through her fingers.

“That’s a pretty color,” someone said to her.

As Robin looked up, she came face-to-face with the woman she was supposed to be watching. 

“Oh, thank you,” she replied brightly.

“What’re you making?” Bookclub asked kindly.

“A scarf for my husband. At least I hope so “It’s been a while since I’ve knitted.”

“Don’t worry, it’s like riding a bike. You’ll pick it back up again.” With that, she wandered a few seats away and pulled a chair up to a few of the other women who’d been there when Robin had arrived. They were knitting quickly and talking animatedly, barely stopping to greet her.

Robin dug her phone out of her bag and discreetly snapped a few photos under the guise of looking for her pattern. Bookclub was settled in, pulling a rainbow of variegated yarn out of her bag, followed by a bottle of wine.

Robin grinned and pulled a pattern up on her phone, something easy so she could keep her focus on what was going on around her. She lazily cast on several dozen stitches, again running the soft yarn though her fingers. The one thing she remembered her grandmother saying was not to skimp on yarn. The wool and cashmere blend she’d chosen was luxurious. Even if the finished product ended up a tangled disaster it would be soft and warm.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

She smiled to herself. It really did come right back. 

She watched her hands but kept her ears on the group of women down the row of chairs. Their discussion focused mostly on their kids; someone’s son had broken a window paying football with his mates over the weekend.

Robin couldn’t help but grin to herself; it sounded like something Martin would have done. She could just imagine her mother sitting around the tea shop in Marsham having this exact discussion.

“Love, do you want to join us?”

Robin looked up. One of Bookclub’s friends was motioning to her, “C’mon, don’t sit over there by yourself. The conversation’s the real fun of knit night.”

Robin smiled as she got up and moved over a few chairs to sit with the women.

“I’m Lana,” she introduced herself as Robin sat down. “This is Rose and Maggie. Now really, the best part of knit night is the wine. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” Robin laughed, “I’m Violet.”

“So Violet,” Maggie asked, leaning in, “Are you here to escape your kids or your husband?”

Robin nearly choked on the wine she’d sipped out of the paper cup she’d been provided, letting a laugh escape when she’d caught her breath.

“Today? Mostly the kids.”

There was a round of laughter and empathetic noises.

“Well come on then,” Bookclub prompted. Robin was going to have to remember to call her Rose, “Let’s see some pictures.”

Robin pulled out her phone and queued up the pictures, “This is Anna, she’s nearly a year and the bane of my existence today. And this is Jack and my husband –” she blanked for a moment, “Luke.”

She was _not_ telling Strike about that. The last time he’d been at Lucy’s Luke had spilled red wine down the front of Strike’s white shirt. He really was an aresehole.

“Hello, Sir,” Maggie leaned in, looking carefully at the picture of Strike. She turned and looked at Robin after a moment, “He married up.”

Robin let out a giddy giggle. Violet was the type to giggle, “He _did_ , didn’t he?”

Over the next two hours she listened and fell into comfortable conversation. She learned that Maggie was a single mom of two girls. Lana had a young boy who was starting high school, and Rose, as she already knew, had two young boys around Jack’s age.

They were through the bottle of wine quickly and Robin was enjoying herself, happy to have the additional women fueling continuous conversation, letting her pick up bits and pieces about Rose’s children and husband without asking a question.

As it neared nine most of the women began to pack their things and head off. 

“We’re going to the pub up the street for another glass of wine,” Maggie told her, as the three women began to pack their own things. “Do you want to join us?”

“Oh,” Robin said, caught off-guard, and surprised at the friendliness, “I would love to, but I’ve told my husband I’d be home by 9:30, and I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“Next week, then?” Rose asked.

“I would love that,” Robin replied.

After Violet’s new friends had departed for the pub she packed up her own bag, four inches of scarf neatly completed. She bid farewell to the few remaining men and women and made her way back to the tube, looking forward to getting back to her apartment, having some time to sit on the couch with Max and Wolfgang before putting herself to bed.

On the tube she typed notes into her phone, stories that Bookclub had revealed about her kids and husband. Her boys were troublesome, reminding her of Strike’s other nephews. She hadn’t said much about her husband aside from that he was entirely too lenient with them when they caused trouble, not exactly grounds for divorce.

-

Robin’s first stop the next morning was at her therapist’s office. The woman was Robin’s mother age, bubbly and bright and she’d found her to be much more helpful than the woman she’d seen the first time around. She let Robin into her office and set about making them both a cup of tea as she asked about Robin’s week.

As they settled into their usual seats Robin’s bag tipped on the floor, the skein of yarn rolling across the floor.

“Oh, are you knitting?” she asked, as Robin leaned down to collect it back into her bag.

Robin couldn’t exactly say it was for a case, “Yeah, a bit.”

“That’s a nice habit to pick up. A few of my other patients always have knitting with them, especially on the tube. I know you don’t usually experience much anxiety there, but it can be a great balance.”

Robin looked sideways at the yarn in her bag. She hadn’t thought of that. The previous night had certainly been relaxing, though she wasn’t certain if the wine, the company, or the knitting had helped more.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised.

An hour later she climbed back onto the tube to ride across town to the office. She settled into one of the empty seats on the subway car and pulled out the scarf and knitting needles. In the least she’d have more done by the time she went back to the knit night the following week.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

If nothing else the time certainly passed more quickly. Before she knew it she was shoving things into her bag and climbing up the stairs at Tottenham Court Road.

“Morning,” she called when she let herself into the office.

Pat greeted Robin around the electric cigarette that was clenched between her teeth, barely looking up from the invoices in front of her.

Robin deposited her coat on the rack by the door and went through her normal morning routine, making tea in the kitchenette. She placed one on Pat’s desk before bringing the other two in through the open door or Strike’s office. He was just putting down his mobile.

“Two Times has a new girlfriend,” he said shortly.

“Oh God,” Robin rolled her eyes. Even without details she knew several more late nights were likely to be necessary across the team.

“At least we’ll get a nice boost before Christmas,” she went on. “Do we have enough details to update the rota?”

Strike shook his head, “No, not yet. He’s coming in to meet tomorrow.” 

He took a sip of his tea, “How was Bookclub?”

“She was there,” Robin said, pulling out her phone to show him the photos she’d taken, “with friends even. I guess I looked properly lonely because they invited me to sit with them and share some wine. I didn’t even have to ask any questions. They just spouted off about their kids and husbands for two hours.”

“Do you think she’s cheating on him?”

Robin’s gut said no, but it was too early in the investigation for an answer like that.

“I don’t know,” she replied instead. “They went down to a pub after the meeting was over. I’ll go with them next week, but that still only accounts for Tuesday nights. He said she’s out on Fridays, and sometimes Saturdays too. Barclay’s on to keep an eye on the house this weekend, but I can try to get more out of her next week if not.”

“Good,” Strike nodded. “Have Pat print the photos and add them to the file. We’re not to give the husband an update until Monday.”

He picked up his tea and took a long sip. 

“How’d your knitting go?”

“Not bad actually,” she said. “I picked a pattern with easy stitches, and it came right back. If I mess it up it’ll be fine; the wine seems to be more the point to knit night than the knitting.”

The corner of Strike’s lip twitched upwards.

“So, you fit right in then?”

“Oh, sod off,” she muttered, but without any venom behind it.

His eyes were bright as he tried to hide his smile behind another sip from his mug.

-

Robin’s days were filled with surveillance, following marks across London, sitting in cafés and watching buildings. There were girlfriends, wives, and husbands suspected of cheating, and a financial consultant, believed, by his employer, to be getting insider information.

She’d kept the big bag that Ilsa had lent her and had begun habitually pulling out the knitting when she sat on and watched. She could go through the motions to knit and purl without even looking down at her hands, keeping her attention on the buildings.

Surprisingly, people approached her less when she was knitting than they did when she had a book laid out in front of her. She’d learned to drink coffee or tea slowly but keeping her hands busy made time pass much more quickly.

Before she knew it, it was Tuesday again, and she found herself looking forward to Bookclub and knit night, even mentioning to Max that she’d probably be back late.

It was raining and cold and when she stepped into Daunt Books, and put down her umbrella, at the same time tugging the scarf free from her neck and stuffing it into her bag. She was early again, though not the first one to arrive. 

She grabbed a couple of biscuits from the snack table and strolled across the room to fall into a chair.

“Hiya Rose,” she greeted.

Rose looked up from the knitting across her lap and smiled broadly.

“You came back, that’s good,” she said. “How’s the babe this week?”

Robin sighed, letting her bag fall from her shoulder to the floor.

“She’s alright. The husband is the real pain in the ass this week. He’s been busy with extra hours at work and I could use the help.”

“What’s he do, then?”

“He was in the army for the past ten year. We moved to London when he left and got a job in security.” It was best to stick to partly the truth, easier to remember and know the details if someone asked questions. She knew just enough details of Strike’s job in SIB to be convincing.

“How about you? The boys behaving themselves, this week?”

Rose laughed, “Of course not. I hope they cause hell for their father while I’m out tonight. Might do him some good to have to discipline them himself.”

“Quite indulgent, is he?”

“You know men, they get to come home from work and be the fun parent. Even when they get in trouble at school, he asks like he expects I’ve already handed out punishment.”

Robin didn’t say anything and, as she’d expected, Rose rushed to fill the silence.

“It’s why I started coming to these nights, give him some time to have to put up with their antics without me running interference. I’ve been finding more to do to spend time out of the house.”

Robin was about to ask what else she did when Lana and Maggie arrived. The distraction of loud exclamations over Maggie’s newly dyed hair, now a bright shade of pink, broke the moment. 

Lana looked over at Robin’s scarf when she pulled it out of her bag to begin working on it.

“This is coming along lovely,” she commented, “Your husband’ll love it.”

“I hope so,” Robing piped up as Violet, “It’s been bloody difficult to keep him from seeing it. It lives at the bottom of my purse.”

Rose reached over and ran her fingers over the yarn. “That’ll be nice and warm once the weather turns. You sure you don’t want to keep it to yourself?”

She laughed, “I’m not the one Jack’s going to ask to practice football with all winter.”

The conversation that night drifted back and forth between kids (lots of football, loads of sarcasm, and one repaired window), and husbands (often useless, but the kids loved them). There was no wine to pass around so they sustained themselves with tea and biscuits.

Robin added a few more inches to her scarf, focusing on the conversation more than the yarn passing over her fingers and around the needles.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

The pub on the corner had a very different feel from the Tottenham and the homier places she often found with Strike. It was open and airy, and reminded her more of her mothers’ favorite teahouse in Marsham. It wasn’t crowded and they were able to secure a cozy table after ordering glasses of wine from the bar.

“So, how did your husband feel about the broken window?” she asked Rose as they settled in. 

“Sam, my husband blamed it on the neighbor’s boy,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Tim and Billy have been kicking the ball against the side of the house for week, and he’s been complaining and telling them not to do it. But when they go and break the window on the same wall it couldn’t possibly be them.

“I tried to say no football for two weeks, and he bought them a new ball and took them to the park over the weekend with their mates. I don’t remember the last time he did that. If he did it regularly maybe they wouldn’t be beating up my house.”

“Have you tried grounding _him_ for two weeks? To the couch perhaps?” Maggie asked, not even attempting to hide her smirk.

“I told him if he kept buying the boys gifts here and there, Christmas was going to be light this year. What else could I do without looking like the bad guy.”

“Well I hope he didn’t complain about having to replace the window, then.”

“Only when they were late.”

“He’s a twat,” said Lana, definitively.

Rose glanced at Robin.

“I promise we don’t just complain about our husbands,” she said, “Yours sounds lovely. Mine is just being a bit of a prat at the moment. It’s work, he’s up for partner and he’s stressed, so he wants everything to run smoothly at home. It might make me lose my mind, but they should be making the announcement after the new year.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Robin responded, “Luke and I argued all the time when he was in the military. Every time we had to move, or he was abroad for months at a time, he’d come home and it was all about being the fun parent. I much prefer him now that he’s out. He comes home from work at the same time nearly every day and we’re a team. I hope you get back to that.”

“Thank you, Vi,” Rose said. She lifted her glass, only to find it mostly empty.

“Who else needs another round?” Robin asked.

She went to the bar and ordered a bottle of wine, slightly nicer than she’d usually treat herself to on a night out; if this was the only time these women got to spend away from their husbands and kids during the week they deserved it. She made her return to the table slowly. She was still new and knew the other women had known each other for at least six months.

“I’m meeting John out toward Covent Garden; we’re having dinner at Isabel on Friday evening,” Rose was telling them when she finally pulled out her chair and passed over the bottle. “I’m looking forward to a nice French meal and some more accommodating company.”

Robin didn’t get to ask who John was; Maggie and Lana were already moving on to ahhing over the menu at Isabel, and talking about a place in Islington that they’d enjoyed. She made a mental note to look up the restaurant on the train back to her apartment.

It was late when they finished the bottle and Robin walked to the nearby tube stop with Lana and Rose. They both bid her goodnight a few stops later. When she was alone Robin pulled out her phone to take notes and to look up Isabel’s website. It was a much higher caliber of establishment than the pub, or the bookstore. If she planned to run into Rose there she would have to plan a very different ensemble.

Riding the subway late at night hadn’t made Robin uneasy in months, but she pulled out the scarf and picked up where she’d left off at the bookstore. With an ear out for the stop announcement she focused in on the practiced motion of her needles.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

_-_

On her way to the office the next morning Robin picked herself up a large latte. She’d had slightly too much wine the night before and there had been delays on the tube. She was thankful that she had a day of updating case files in front of her instead of surveillance. Theheavy rain had not improved her mood.

When she entered the office Strike was leaning against the narrow kitchenette counter while Barclay sat on the farting sofa, both with teas clutched in their hands.

“Morning,” she greeted, trying to shrug out of her coat without putting down her coffee.

After a moment of struggling the warm drink was plucked from her hand. Strike had taken her latte and was giving her a fond, amused grin. With a huff she finally managed to free herself from the waterproof material and hung her coat on the rack.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting it back.

“On that note, I’m off,” Barclay announced. The couch squeaked familiarly as he stood and reached past Robin to retrieve his own coat and a compact umbrella. “Two Times’ girlfriend has classes today, so I’ll be at the university. I’ll update ye both if we end up anywhere interestin’.”

“Thanks Sam,” Robin said. “Stay dry.”

“Where’s Pat?” she asked, once the door had closed behind Barclay. Their secretary was typically prompt in her arrivals and departures.

“Appointment,” Strike explained, picking his tea back up from the counter. “She’ll be in at lunchtime.”

He paused in the doorway to the inner office and looked back at her, “You look knackered.”

Robin made a noncommittal noise and followed him into the inner office. She took her seat on the far side of the desk and booted up her laptop, taking a sip of her drink, which had finally cooled enough to not burn her tongue.

“How was Bookclub?” he asked.

“Good,” she answered, “They mostly talked about the kids again, so I bought a bottle of wine at the bar to keep them talking until it was gone.”

“You didn’t drink it all yourself, did you?” He arched an eyebrow as he smirked at her.

She ignored him, “Did the husband tell you he’s up for partner at his firm? That he’s been under a lot of pressure and working more hours than usual?”

“He didn’t mention anything about it,” Strike replied, sitting back in his chair. 

“She was explaining to us that since he’s been stressed at work, he’s trying to make everything run smoothly at home, even when it means he’s contradicting her. Their boys have been getting in trouble; broke a window last week and he rewarded them with exactly what she took away.”

“So, you don’t think she’s cheating on him?”

“I didn’t say that.” Robin turned her computer to Cormoran. “I missed the start of the conversation but she told them she’s meeting someone named John at a restaurant called Isabel on Friday evening. I’ve looked for all the Johns, Johnnys, and Jonathans on her Facebook and there are more than two dozen.”

“Another night out for drinks then?”

Robin clicked to the next tab to show him the site for Isabel that she’d found at home the night before.

“I don’t think this is the kind of place you stop for a drink after picking up the kids from school.”

Isabel’s main room was a luxe mix of mahogany and gold, of pre-set tables and velvety, cushioned chairs. It screamed expensive.

Strike studied the picture for a moment.

“We should look into their financial records if we can. If Bookclub is having dinners like this every Friday that’ll be a substantial hit.” He began listing out a few questions in the file and continued, “Are you going to try out a different disguise, then?”

“I was actually thinking it might be the kind of place Violet might meet her husband for a drink on a night out?”

His pen froze, just for a moment. After completing his note, he looked up at Robin, “And that’d be me?”

“I did show them the picture of you and Jack.” Her stomach did a little flip at the admission. There had certainly been some appreciation from the other women.

Strike hesitated, “I thought you ladies all went to this knitting group to drink wine and complain about your husbands?”

“Oh, Violet’s husband just got out of the army,” Robin told him, feeling a flush begin rising on her neck. “She’s still in that smitten period where she’s happy that he’s not out on assignments and takes such a huge interest in her and the kids.”

Strike had always told her to base her disguises at least partly in the truth, but he hadn’t expected it to extend quite that far.

“Smitten?” He nodded, “Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve said he’s working in high-end security so you may want to wear the suit. And his name is Luke Jones.”

Strike’s face took on a mildly offended wrinkle.

“Sorry,” Robin replied, suppressing a laugh. “I hadn’t thought about it beforehand and I was talking about Jack playing football. It was the first name that came to mind.”

“Luke,” he agreed, “But not an arsehole.”

“No,” she agreed, hiding a small grin as she turned her laptop back to herself. “Not an arsehole.”

-

Robin spent the rest of the week trading off with Barclay, following Two Times’ current flame, and doing online research for all of the cases on their docket in between. She was almost too busy to think about the impending dinner with Strike on Friday.

That was, until Friday afternoon, when she was looking through her closet for a dress to wear to dinner. She and Strike had planned the rough details. She would arrive first, and he would arrive ten to twenty minutes later for a drink at the bar, where they’d be able to see the whole room, figure out how best to run into Rose and John.

She put on Violet’s wig and tried on a few of the dresses, finally deciding on a figure-hugging black dress with abstract white and grey flowers. It paired well with the opal necklace and a pair of dark stud earrings. She took time doing her makeup, subtle eyeshadow over a thin line of dark liner, and a matte pink lipstick. Finally, strappy black heels. She’d had them forever, but rarely had the chance to wear them; Matthew hadn’t liked her tall, but even in heels Strike would still tower over her. It was a quiet thought that snuck into her mind every time he hugged her.

She took the tube across town from her apartment to the restaurant and it was even more impressive than the pictures on the website had let on. She smiled at the hostess as she dropped her coat and gave her name for the reservation that was still forty minutes away. If they were able to get the information they needed quickly, they would not be staying for dinner. She saw herself to the bar, which was central in the restaurant and gave her a clear view of the entire room.

After perusing the drink menu and wine list she ordered a glass of Chablis Le Finage for herself and a whisky cocktail called a Gaucho, flavored with honey and lavender, for Strike.

She looked around slowly, taking in the room and the patrons, spotting Rose across the opposite side of the room with a man, at one of the tables by the window. The man’s back was to her, but Rose was smiling and laughing.

Then, nearly unconsciously, her gaze swung back to the doors. Strike had just walked in and at the sight of him her mouth went dry.

Strike’s suit fit well, this time highlighted by a starched white shirt and a dark grey tie. His hair was neater than usual, combed to one side and neatened with product. He looked more professionally put together than Robin had ever seen him before.

“Hiya,” she called, standing up with a wave. Out of the corner of the eye she thought she caught Rose looking up at the sound of her voice.

Strike smiled broadly, another rare sight, and crossed the room in a few short strides to join her, appreciatively looking her up and down.

“Hello, Love,” he greeted her, pulling her into him by the waist. He smelled of the subtle lavender aftershave he occasionally wore, lightening the usual wave of tobacco that she’d grown used to. He was warm and solid as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“Bookclub’s here,” she whispered quickly, “My nine o’clock by the windows. I think she’s seen us, so you’d better make it look good.”

Strike paused, his face just a few inches from hers, and looked her in the eyes. She could almost see him thinking.

“Sorry ‘bout this.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her. 

Strike lips were soft and his mouth hot on hers. The hand on her waist slid to her back and pulled her in closer, so that they were pressed firmly together from hip to shoulder, his chest a solid, warm presence sending a chill down her spine. Robin hummed into the kiss and wrapped her arm up over Strike’s broad shoulders. He did, in fact, still tower over her despite the heels.

His rough fingers ghosted along her jaw to cup the back of her head as he tilted his head to one side. His tongue was at the seam of her lips and she gasped, letting him in. As his tongue explored her mouth her brain ceased to function, and it was just her and him, the rest of the world disappearing completely for a moment.

With feigned reluctance he pulled back, leaning back in to press another innocent peck to her lips before standing straight and nodding to the barkeep, who was placing their drinks on the bar.

Robin picked up her wine, blankly taking a sip, and not tasting a thing beyond the faint aftertaste of tobacco, as she came back to herself.

Strike’s arm was still around her waist as he raised his whisky to his lips and took a sip.

“That’s pretty good,” he remarked.

“It’d better be,” Robin countered, “You could buy half a dozen pints for the price of that drink.”

One eyebrow cocked upwards at her but before she could say anything there was a voice behind her.

“Violet, is that you?”

Robin turned in Strike’s arm to find Rose behind her, having come up to the bar.

“Rose, hello,” she greeted enthusiastically, then, as though she’d suddenly remembered, “Oh, that’s why the name of this place was so familiar.”

She threw a look over her shoulder at Strike before looking back to Rose, “You mentioned it at knit night.”

She stepped in, exchanging a hug with Rose in greeting. She turned back to Strike and motioned him toward them.

“Rose, this is my husband Luke,” she introduced. “Luke, this is Rose, we met at that knit night at Daunt Books.”

Strike stepped forward and shook Rose’s hand. 

“I didn’t think knit night was real, if I’m being honest,” he told her, “She won’t show me what she’s made. I thought she was just popping down to the pub.”

Rose laughed, “She gets more done than some of us. But there is plenty of wine involved.”

“Rosie?” There was a man coming up behind Rose.

“Oh, is this Sam?” Robin asked, pulling Rose’s husband’s name from a deep pocket of her memory.

“Oh no,” Rose laughed, motioning him over, “This is John, my brother.”

There was another round of handshakes. There was no questioning that this was Rose’s brother once they saw him. Their features were similar, especially around the eyes and mouth.

“Do you want to join us?” Rose asked, “We’re looking over some real estate listings, but we can put those away for now.”

“Real estate listings?” Robin asked, “Are you moving?”

“No,” Rose’s face lit up, “Actually, I just got my real estate license. I’m helping John look for a flat before I find a position with a firm. We’ve been looking at places every Saturday for the past month.”

“That’s fantastic!” Robin gasped, things suddenly falling into place. 

“Thank you,” Rose smiled broadly, “So what do you say, dinner?”

Robin looked back and up at Strike, realizing suddenly that his hand hadn’t moved from her waist throughout the entire conversion. Not only that but he was looking at her with a soft, incredibly fond gaze that she had never seen before. Something twisted in her chest, painful and exhilarating all at once.

She put her hand gently on his arm to gain his attention, “What do you think?”

“Another time, Love?” he asked. “It’s been a long week. I was hoping to get home and see the kids before they go to bed. We can grab some take-away.”

“Raincheck?” Robin asked. 

Strike was speaking in code, equally satisfied that they’d figured out what was going on.

“Yes,” Rose agreed, “Absolutely. We’ll talk on Tuesday. Enjoy your drinks.”

As Rose and her brother moved back to their table Robin finally turned back to the bar. Strike was sliding back into one of the cushioned bar chairs.

Robin was pleased, a broad smile pulling across her face as she slid back into her own chair and picked up her wine. It was delicious, even sweeter knowing they’d likely just closed their case.

She didn’t notice Strike shifting his chair, angling it toward her until his hand reached across the bar to hers, his fingers trailing lightly over her wrist. Electricity shot up her spine.

“Bookclub keeps looking over here,” he told her, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of conversations around them.

Robin immediately shifted her attention back to him, closing her palm around his fingers, to stop them running over her wrist. The intimate action was almost too much, especially when she noticed a wedding band adoring his finger.

“Do you want to go?” she asked.

“No, finish your drink,” he told her. “You did good work; we should celebrate.”

A warm feeling of pleasure spread through Robin’s chest at the praise. It had not been the hardest case that they’d seen, but it was always nice to close one out so quickly. 

“I’m going to go to knit night again on Tuesday to iron out some details. I want to know if she’s surprising her husband with the license or if he’s just a prat who doesn’t pay attention.”

Strike was grinning fondly again, though he was trying to hide it in his glass.

“If he’s just being a prat he deserves for us to charge him for four more days of investigating, Cormoran.”

“I don’t disagree,” he conceded. He raised a hand to the bartender, motioning for another drink for himself.

“You did an excellent job getting Bookclub’s attention when you got here,” Robin commented.

Strike shrugged, “Seemed the easiest way to cause a scene. Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else on the spot.”

“No,” Robin finished the last of her ride and shook her head, “It’s fine. It was exactly the kind of thing that would make her get up and come over.”

“Well in that case,” Strike took Robin’s hand in his, his eyes darting over toward Bookclub and her brother. He raised it and pressed a kiss to the back of her hands, “I aim to please.”

She laughed, “Let’s get out of here.”

Strike threw back the rest of his drink and rose from his chair. He offered Robin his arm, which she took, and the two of them moved together through the filling restaurant. Even once they’d retrieved their coats and were outside Strike kept an arm around her back in a display of closeness that she wasn’t quite used to. They walked a few blocks before Strike hailed a cab, insisting she take it home, brooking no room for argument.

Once he’d closed the door behind her and the cab had started off Robin found she missed the warmth of him beside her.

-

With the potential closure of their case Robin’s weekend was considerably lighter on work than she’d been expecting. Max was shooting outside of London, so, with the flat to herself, she set about updating her case files, spreading them out on the coffee table in the sitting room and making herself comfortable on the sofa.

The physical, orderly way that Strike laid out his notes and case details in his files had rubbed off on her over the past several years, so much so that even taking into account rewriting any remotely illegible notes, she was done just past noon on Saturday.

For the first time in what had to be at least a year, there was time to relax. Robin knew she had shopping to do, and certainly laundry that needed to be done, but instead she took advantage of the quiet afternoon, queueing up a film on the television, and pulling her neglected knitting out of Ilsa’s bag to work on as she watched.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

On Tuesday evening Robin was late to the bookshop for knit night. She’d been following Two Times’ latest girlfriend and had ended up farther across London than she’d expected.

Rose was huddled in one corner with Lana and Maggie, the latter gesticulating wildly with her arms while telling a story. They all roared with laughter and Robin grinned. Part of her would miss them.

As she pulled up her chair Rose’s eyes lit up.

“Why didn’t you tell us that picture didn’t do your husband justice?” she demanded. “I’ve just been telling the girls about our run in at Isabel.”

“Oh.” Robin felt a not quite intentional blush blooming across her face as she recalled the moment herself. “Yes, I suppose he’s quite lovely.”

“Lovely?” Maggie laughed, “From what I heard he had his tongue halfway down your throat in the middle of the dining room, like bloody teenagers.”

She resisted the urge to cover her face with her hands in embarrassment, but only barely.

“Like I said last week, we’re very much enjoying being in the same place for a prolonged period of time.”

“Looked like it,” Rose agreed, smirking not unkindly at Robin.

Robin pulled the nearly finished scarf out of her bag and settled it in her lap, situating herself to pick up where she’d left off, before speaking again.

“I’m much more keen to hear more about your real estate license,” she told Rose. “I don’t remember you mentioning it.”

It seemed that she’d hit on something because both Lana and Maggie turned from her to Rose, questions already flowing. 

Rose smiled proudly as she launched into her explanation of what seemed to be her own well-kept secret, completing her license program while the boys were at school and working with a few friends and relatives as initial clients over the past few months, perfectly matching up with the time frame that her husband had mentioned to Strike. She had left her study materials all around the house, almost continuously but her husband had never said a word more than asking her to move her books off of the dining table at dinner time.

Her plans to join a firm after the holidays additionally coincided with when her husband was expecting to hear whether he was being promoted to partner at his firm, a perfect time for her to start off on a new career path as well.

As she spilled more details Robin smiled to herself, both knowing she would be successful in closing the case, and that she’d effectively diverted attention from her and Strike’s rendezvous in a restaurant bar.

_Slip, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit, purl, purl, knit, knit…_

She let Strike be the one to close out the case with Bookclub’s husband, unsure she’d be the best person to tell him he was being a fool and that his wife was planning to surprise him with her own good news that she was returning to work once he was made partner. More so that she’d been leaving the evidence of her own ventures around the house, expecting him to say something, to no avail.

Undoubtedly, Strike could come up with an up front way to deliver that news, and imply that he should act surprised when she told him. Robin doubted she could be that tactful.

-

It was nearing Strike’s fortieth, and as Robin made a few last-minute updates to the rota at the end of a long day she noticed she wasn’t the only one making changes. With the closure of the Bookclub case they had taken on another new client, a husband suspected of an affair. The husband was a cabbie and his wife suspected he was spending hours with another woman on nights he was meant to be working.

Their schedule listed Strike on night surveillance four day’s straight, Wednesday through Saturday, without a break. His birthday fell right in the middle and the last day effectively closing off the available weekend to any sort of celebration. It was all perfectly constructed to keep him from being able to make plans, be it with Lucy, the Herbert’s, or any of Strike’s other acquaintances in London.

She shook her head and pulled a gift bag and card out of the bottom drawer of Pat’s desk. The door to Strike’s office was open and he was poring over photos on his laptop for the Cabbie case.

Robin leaned in the door frame for a moment before speaking.

“Do you want me to see if Barclay will take over Cabbie surveillance a few nights next week?” she asked innocently.

“No,” Strike responded quickly. Too quickly. After a short pause he added, “Thank you.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to-”

“He’s been taking most of the nights lately. I’m sure his wife will be happy to have him home to help with the kid.”

Robin crossed the room in a few short strides and put a stiff silver bag on Strike’s desk before sitting in the free chair.

“I was going to wait until Friday to give you that, but it’s going to be cold next week, and I know the heat in the BMW is shoddy.”

The look Strike gave her was trying hard to be unimpressed, but she could always tell he was touched that she took time to remember. He reached out and pulled the bag into his lap before reaching inside and pulling out Robin’s gift.

She’d finished the scarf at the last knit night she’d attended. The solid navy yarn had been a perfect choice for the pattern. The ridges of the alternating rows stood out and showed off the even tension she’d managed to maintain while she worked. The blend of cashmere and wool also assured that the finished product was not only warm, but also soft. 

Strike dug his fingers into the material, stretching the scarf to its full length before looping it over his neck.

“Is this what you were making at those knit nights?” he asked, voice quiet and warm.

“Yeah,” Robin confirmed, “It’s been quite nice to work on actually, and I told the girls it was for my husband after all,” she shrugged innocently.

“Well, it was an honor,” he said, still rubbing the ribbing between his fingers, a small smile gracing his face. He hadn’t stopped thinking about that night over the past few weeks. “Thank you. This is really thoughtful, and wonderful.”

He reached for the card, but Robin stopped him.

“Save that for your actual birthday,” she said, “I’ll make sure Nick and Ilsa know you’re busy through the weekend when they ask. And I’ll let Lucy know when you’ve ignored enough of her calls for her to ring the office.”

Strike smiled fully. She knew him far too well.

“Don’t exhaust yourself next week,” Robin told him as she stood up, “I mean it, if you’re knackered, Barclay or I will take over a night or two for you and we won’t tell Ilsa or Lucy about it.”

“I will,” he agreed, though Robin doubted he meant it.

He smiled at her as she gathered up her coat and purse.

“Thanks for this.” He held up the scarf. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Have a good weekend,” she told him, before disappearing out the door.

Once the sound of her footsteps had disappeared down the metal staircase Strike wrapped the scarf more firmly around his neck. It was warm, and soft, and most importantly, something Robin probably didn’t realize, was that it smelled of her. The scent of her perfume, musky and mildly floral, clung throughout, and it made him feel instantly content.

-

The following Friday Robin found herself in the office well into the evening once again, updating invoices, payroll, and case files after a day of tailing a dodgy businessman. She’d only seen Strike for a few moments between her arrival and his departure to follow Cabbie.

He’d pointedly ignored the pile of packages and cards that had built up on Pat’s desk over the past few days, but when he came out of the inner office her scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, peeking out between the lapels of his thick coat.

“Happy Birthday,” she greeted him.

“Cheers,” he replied, picking up a camera and kit from the inbox on the desk. Robin knew the kit contained a torch and assortment of lockpicks and badges that he liked to have ‘just in case,’ though following Cabbie had not warranted need for anything nearly as exciting.

“Stay warm,” she called after him as he headed out the door.

Now, nearly three hours later, she was still in the office, finally finishing up on all the paperwork that had been put off throughout the week. She stretched, leaning back as far as the chair would allow, one shoulder popping satisfyingly. 

There were casserole leftovers waiting for her in the fridge at home. Max was home for the weekend so there was a chance that the new boyfriend would be there, which meant a night in her bedroom to give them privacy, perhaps with Wolfgang to keep her company.

She texted Strike to let him know she was heading out and inquired about his night so far.

Cabbie, it seemed, had already parked his cab in front of the house they assumed belonged to his mistress and gone inside, just as he had the previous night. If the pattern repeated itself, he’d be there most of the night.

Robin held off on shutting down the office computer, looking up and placing an order first. Once confirmation pinged her phone, she shut it down and moved to the kitchenette to start up the kettle.

Half an hour later she was walking down a residential street, her eyes on the lookout for Strike’s nondescript BMW. She spotted it from half a block away, and as she neared could see the thin trail of smoke trailing out from the drivers’ window.

If Strike had noticed her coming, he didn’t give any indication. He looked up when she knocked on the window and unlocked the doors to let her in.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette and closing the window.

“Well I wasn’t going to let you spend your birthday by yourself,” she told him, holding up the takeaway bag and thermos. “I come bearing noodles and tea.”

The smile on Strike’s face as he accepted a carton of noodles and set of chopsticks was content. The car was quiet as they ate, Strike had already provided her with the details of Cabbie’s actions, so they both just watched the house.

“Did Lucy call?” she finally asked.

Strike grunted through a mouthful of noodles, “Of course. She told me Jack wanted to wish me a happy birthday.” 

“Not Adam or Luke?” she asked.

“No. Still arseholes.”

She smiled to herself, glancing at Strike, who was looking at her.

“What?”

“Thank you,” he said, motioning to dinner, “This is perfect.”

“A bit cold,” Robin agreed, “But we’ve been on worse.”

She dug into her bag and pulled out another ball of navy yarn, several rows of knitting already complete on a pair of circular needles. The pattern was still simple, but it was something she could do in the dark car.

“Keeping up with it then?” Strike asked.

Robin shrugged, “My therapist thinks it’s a good hobby, reduces anxiety.”

“What’re you making now?”

“A beanie,” Robin told him, looking down as she started to stitch. “It’s going to be snowing soon.”

“Is that going to be for your husband too?”

Robin looked back up at him, mirroring the smile that she found there and ignoring the blush she felt blooming across her cheeks as she thought back to the kiss at the restaurant not for the first time that evening.

“Maybe. If he’s very good.”


End file.
